Poem 5

Sunrise isn’t just a moment

as the news would have you believe.

It is an unfolding

without a beginning or an end--

and suddenly it’s daytime.

But right now I’m floating

past a stream of dark homes

thinking of caffeine.

Poem 6

I get so attached to the moment

that your face blurs with the crowd.

My attention is directed inward,

unaware that I am the one who’s moving.

When I get far enough away

and realize what has happened

I have many new items of pink running gear

folded neatly in a pile.

In the immediate simplicity of the present

this anxiety completely absorbs the oxygen

that usually makes my thoughts work properly.

What remains is an untidy assemblage

of Potato Head hands, giant feet, and unwieldy emotion--

connected by USB cables

and reminiscent of humanity.

Fashion precludes individualism

unless you sew your own clothes.

Poem 7

Why do I think I’m so powerful that I can live out of the corner of my eye

training my peripheral vision to sift through the emotion and avoid immutable pain?

What is non-action when our nature is to pursue our dreams?

In my macular field there is happiness, routine and reality--

reciprocally stepping through a bonanza of well-written books and incredible clothing sales,

wiping endless trails of foam from my eyes

to see what I really need.

Poem 8

After a stimulating autumn

I am settling in for the winter,

an iceberg shivering in the water

shiny on the top from the hairdryer this morning.

(But icebergs don’t have hair…)

As I sip my tea, in this puddle of water,

patiently absorbing the many benefits of ginger

I hope my lips don’t melt

and render my desire to speak to you inert.

He will say that I never write poetry for him

although we sang rounds on the way to work,

and last night we walked home drunk

to make fresh ginger cake.

Poem 9

I pass along rows of identical festive holiday mannequins

decorated with strings of beads and spray-painted magnolia leaves.

Their blank stares and too-pointy elbows set at rigid angles

inspire pathos and terror

but not in that order.

The threat of global warming

allows for a new dress code;

they are almost naked,

except for the cheap plastic foliage—

rebellion from musty mid-80’s fashion,

current when out of context.

As I stroll past each one in sequence, as if silently communicating,

they blast off and fly away,

raising tiny preformed plastic fists to the sky

like liberty.

Poem 10

I like the way caffeine gently calms and strengthens me—

airbrushed white chocolate coating

with factory-applied sparkling pink accents,

precisely spaced,

functional yet beautiful.

The only element missing is sunlight

which I find myself unable to contrive.

The nature of edible protection

is that it relies on self-discipline for its longevity—

waxy reinforcement for delicate living tissues.

When I sat down the moon was 4 inches higher and more to the left.

Familiar surroundings are falling into soft focus.

Still alone.

Shaking the branches only makes the snow fall off.

I’ve done this before.

Molecules drop through my tightly cupped fingers

and the baby birdie flies away.

In the end all I can do is nothing

unless self-restraint is considered action.

Poem 11

[Resigned]

Nestled in these times of monochromatic calm,

but quite paradoxically,

good music overshadows intelligent words.

By accepting this repetitive pedestrian

monosyllabic pabulum

--or even worse, ignoring it—

cowering behind the music

you are making unnecessary concessions

perpetuated by the status quo and

things you used to believe

but haven’t recently reconciled with reality.

And I am getting too old for that.

Poem 12

I could keep going if I knew I wasn’t alone.

I could make it not a big deal

Just go on living

See what happens,

with confidence.

Right now, though, it feels like

mysterious airplane turbulence.

I need to fabricate my own explanations

and I have several--

all pointing in different directions

to accommodate the various scenarios

they taught us in grade 10 algebra.

Silence has precluded the procession I imagined

leaving the ending up to luck, fate, whatever,

yet to be determined

whether the blindfolded paths run parallel

or when the lights come on I will be disoriented, struggling to dilate,

rotating in place like a plastic ballerina, all arms, no one in sight.

Sometimes the outcome is better that way.

I clutch at my securely manicured beliefs;

new teeth for the perfect jaw.

Sometimes I need someone to scream

(and maybe you have)

This is how things are.